Chapter 2: The Wrong Groom
The morning light filtering through the estate’s Gothic windows felt like an accusation. I stood before the full-length mirror in the bridal suite, staring at a woman I barely recognized. The wedding dress—ivory silk with delicate pearl beading—transformed me into someone else’s vision of a perfect bride. Adrian’s vision.
My reflection looked hollow-eyed despite the makeup artist’s careful work, like a beautiful corpse prepared for viewing.
“You look stunning, Miss West,” Lydia said softly, adjusting the cathedral-length veil. The housekeeper’s silver hair was pulled into its usual neat bun, her kind but weary eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “Mr. Alaric would have been so proud.”
The mention of his name was a knife between my ribs. Would Alaric have wanted this for me—marriage to his twin brother as some twisted form of preservation? Or would he have told me to run, to choose happiness over duty?
“Five minutes, Miss,” Thomas announced from the doorway. Adrian’s head of security had been stationed outside my door since dawn, though he called it “protection.” It felt more like surveillance.
Through the window, I could see the estate’s gardens transformed into something from a fairy tale. White roses and baby’s breath adorned every surface, their perfection a stark contrast to the storm in my chest. The guests were already seated—a sea of expensive suits and designer dresses, the elite of society gathered to witness what they thought was a love story.
If only they knew the truth.
The music began—Pachelbel’s Canon, the same piece I’d once hummed while dancing with Alaric on Eldergate Cliffs. The memory hit me like a physical blow: his hands on my waist, the salt air tangling my hair, the way he’d spun me until we were both dizzy with laughter and love.
“Promise me something, Calla,” he’d whispered that night, his forehead pressed against mine. “Promise me that if anything ever happens to me, you’ll choose happiness. Don’t let duty or guilt trap you in a life that isn’t yours.”
I’d kissed him instead of answering, thinking we had forever.
Now, as I placed my hand on my father’s offered arm, I wondered if this was what betrayal felt like—cold and final, like closing a door that could never be opened again.
The chapel doors opened, and suddenly I was walking down the aisle I’d dreamed of since I was a little girl. But everything was wrong. The man waiting at the altar wore Alaric’s face, but his silver-grey eyes were cold mercury instead of warm storm clouds.
Each step forward felt like walking underwater. The faces of the guests blurred together—sympathetic smiles and knowing looks that made my skin crawl. They thought this was romantic, the grieving fiancée finding love again with her lost love’s twin.
They had no idea they were watching a funeral.
Step. Breathe. Step. Breathe.
The memories came anyway, unstoppable as a tide. Alaric proposing on bended knee at sunrise, his voice shaking with emotion. The way he’d looked at me like I was something precious and rare. How we’d planned a small ceremony, just family and close friends.
This cathedral full of strangers was everything we’d agreed we didn’t want.
Adrian’s eyes never left mine as I approached, his gaze intense and possessive. There was something hungry in his expression that made my stomach clench. He looked like a man about to claim a prize he’d been waiting his whole life to win.
Finally, I reached the altar. My father placed my hand in Adrian’s, and the contact sent an unwelcome shock up my arm. Adrian’s fingers were warm, strong, disturbingly familiar. For a moment, I could almost pretend it was Alaric standing there.
Then Adrian smiled, and the illusion shattered. There was something sharp in that smile, something that didn’t reach his eyes.
The officiant began speaking, his words washing over me like white noise. I responded when prompted, my voice steady despite the chaos in my head. Adrian’s responses were clear and confident, each word precisely enunciated. He spoke his vows like a man reciting a business contract, not a declaration of love.
“You may kiss the bride.”
Adrian’s hands framed my face with surprising gentleness, his thumbs brushing across my cheekbones. For a moment, his expression softened into something that might have been tender. Then his lips met mine, and the world tilted.
The kiss was nothing like Alaric’s had been—no gentle exploration or sweet discovery. Adrian kissed me like he was claiming territory, his mouth demanding and possessive. I could taste his hunger, his satisfaction, and underneath it all, something that felt dangerously like obsession.
When he pulled away, his silver eyes glittered with triumph. “Mrs. Thorne,” he murmured, just for me.
The reception passed in a haze of congratulations and well-wishes. I smiled and nodded and played the perfect bride while inside I screamed. The cake was tasteless, the champagne bitter. Every time someone mentioned how lucky I was, how romantic it was that love had found me again, I wanted to laugh or cry or both.
Then came the first dance.
The string quartet began playing “At Last,” and Adrian led me onto the dance floor with practiced grace. His hand settled on the small of my back, proprietary and warm through the silk of my dress. As we swayed together, I was painfully aware of how perfectly we fit—his height complementing mine, our steps naturally synchronized.
It should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like a cruel joke.
“You’re beautiful tonight,” Adrian said, his breath warm against my ear. “Though I suppose you’re beautiful every night. I’ve been watching you for months, you know. Waiting.”
Something cold crawled down my spine. “Waiting for what?”
His hand tightened on my back, pulling me closer. “For you to be mine. Completely mine.”
The possessiveness in his tone made me want to pull away, but we were surrounded by watching guests. Instead, I kept dancing, kept smiling, kept playing the part.
“I need to tell you something,” Adrian continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. “About the baby you lost.”
My blood turned to ice. The miscarriage was my most private pain, known only to Dr. Hayes, Lydia, and Alaric. I’d never told Adrian about it.
“The baby,” Adrian murmured, his lips nearly brushing my ear, “conceived on February fourteenth. You lost it at twelve weeks, three days. You blamed yourself because you’d had wine at dinner the night before, even though Dr. Hayes assured you that wasn’t the cause.”
My legs nearly gave out. Those details—intimate, specific, devastating—how could he possibly know them?
“How do you—”
“I know everything about you, Calla,” he said, his voice silk over steel. “Every tear, every fear, every secret you think you’ve hidden. We’re married now. There should be no secrets between us.”
The music swelled around us, beautiful and haunting, while my world crumbled. Adrian continued to dance as if he hadn’t just shattered what remained of my sense of safety.
“Smile, darling,” he whispered, his hand sliding up to rest between my shoulder blades. “Everyone’s watching. They want to see how happy we are.”
I looked up into his silver eyes and saw something that made my soul recoil—not love, not even desire, but ownership. Pure, absolute ownership.
And as we danced under the crystal chandeliers, surrounded by the laughter and joy of our wedding guests, I realized with crystal clarity that I hadn’t just married the wrong man.
I’d married a monster.